


Clockwork Head, Stained Glass Heart

by Rosage



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 23:56:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18215381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosage/pseuds/Rosage
Summary: Salim struggles to make up for lost time. Crafting the perfect gift for Asra proves a complicated step.





	Clockwork Head, Stained Glass Heart

The light through the stained glass reveals floating dust families on its way to patterning the library floor. Salim files the color fragments away for an art project as he explores the shelves, which brim with knowledge he couldn’t draw from in captivity. The memory has him glancing over his shoulder, as he promised Aisha he would. She and Asra are mapping the beach and its tides—safe and happy, he has to assume, meaning he can get lost in research all night without worrying. However, before he starts, something more important tugs at his attention.

Salim didn't expect to find Asra's magic in the library. It thrums when he steps in front of the little window framing the willow tree, drawing him to bookshelves he wouldn't have thought relevant to Asra's interests. Then again, for all he knows, Asra got into bricklaying in his absence. It’s as likely as anything after seventeen years.

As it turns out, the shelves shield a portal in the wall. It almost overwhelms him with how much it resembles Aisha's magic, its currents flowing like an aqueduct out of the snake design. He gathers his own power in his fingertips as he reaches for it.

Before he can trace the symbol, it sucks him in. He’s tugged on a winding path like a manic gondola ride until the portal spits him out, leaving him crouched behind a hedge. He rights himself and confirms Flamel is tucked in his clothes. The willow tree waves nearby.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" he says to it. A passing gardener gives him a strange look, and he remembers this is really not where he is supposed to be. A quick search confirms the portal is one-way, more a waterfall than a gate. His heart grows cold as he imagines what necessitated Asra create it.

Spying a guard on their rounds, he heads for the palace as quickly as he can while appearing natural. "Lovely gardens," he murmurs before remembering Aisha isn't there.

 _Somewhere safe_ , Flamel offers.

Still, Salim's thumping heart guides him more than his eyes. Asra promised the countess is nothing like her former husband, but it’s too easy to remember one of those spears prodding Salim’s back. In his daze, he almost runs into the countess, who looks taken aback.

"Alchemist Salim, were you finding the library wanting?"  
  
"Salim, please," he says with an absent smile. This is Asra's friend, regardless of the attendant at her elbow. "And no, I seem to have gotten turned around."  
  
"I see." If the countess finds this odd, she doesn't say so. "Before that discovery, were you finding what you required?"

"I, ah, hadn't started yet." Based on her confusion, enough time has passed that he should have, not that he keeps track of such things anymore.

"He spent an hour studying the door, Milady," her handmaiden says. If only his mind held onto names; he recognizes her more by the contrasting patterns of her striped scarf and freckles.

Salim brightens. "Oh, yes, though I had no idea an hour passed. It's a masterful mechanism; I've never seen anything like it."

Strangely, that colors the countess's cheeks. Even her handmaiden seems pleased. "I didn't suppose it would catch the eye of a specialist such as yourself," the countess says.

"Seriously? No lock of mine is so elaborate! May I ask to be in touch with the designer?"

"I'm sure they are a hobbyist beneath your abilities."

"Milady is too humble," the handmaiden says. "She designed it herself."

Salim looks up at the countess with fresh admiration. "You're interested in mechanical work, Countess? I had no idea."

"I dabble in all manner of things, but I admit, I'm pleased to hear an expert's opinion."

"I'm pleased to offer it. Are you in charge of the rest of the palace security, my lady? The clocks, maybe?"

"If you have questions, perhaps we should settle somewhere more comfortable?"

Too late, it occurs to Salim that he's stopped the countess on the veranda, no doubt blocking her from something important. The guard posted at the entrance has taken notice, raising the hair at Salim’s nape, but the countess looks unruffled. "If it's no intrusion," he says.

A look passes between countess and attendant that suffices for a dismissal, and Salim gets the feeling the handmaiden is more than a handmaiden. Not that court gossip is his area, but any sign of love brightens his view of the world that hurt his family.

The countess ushers him into a sitting area with plush chairs and silk curtains that, while comfortable, makes him feel shabby in comparison. A grand clock he’s itching to study ticks in the corner. He takes note of the spiced tea for Aisha's reference.

"Thank you, Countess—Nadi, was it?"  
  
That seems to amuse her. "Nadia will do."

"Oh, of course, forgive me." He really must stop assuming Asra doesn't call his friends nicknames. "To be honest, while I could pick your brains about mechanical work all day, I have advice to ask as a father."

"I regret to say that's not my area of expertise."

"Of course not, I only—and if I can aid you in any way, please say the word, but—you are Asra's friend, aren't you?"

The smile in her eyes makes him glow with pride. "Yes, we met years ago. What of it? Has something befallen him?"

"No, no, not at all! He and his mother are having a water specialists' day out. Something about no alchemists or men allowed." Halfway to a fond reverie, he remembers the topic at hand. "Has he told you what happened to Aisha and me?"

"A little. He is not always forthcoming, but by the gist of it, I owe you an apology for my former husband's behavior."

"You owe me nothing. You've only been gracious." That, and nothing can make up for his family's pain. He redirects them before he can wallow on things that aren't appropriate to burden Nadia with. "As you can imagine, reconnecting with Asra has been a process."

A shadow flickers across her features. "I can imagine."

"He's... He's so important." A wave of love and loss washes the words from his throat. He cleans his spectacles while he collects himself. "I've been trying to craft him a present. I thought you might have ideas."

She sips her tea, appearing to find it bitter. "To start, I would suggest you _not_ assume he would enjoy whatever he fancied as a child."

"Very astute," he murmurs. He and Aisha have already made many such mistakes, serving him halva sweetened with dates and traditional dishes he hadn’t eaten since his youth, among other attempts to prove they could be a family again. They all backfired, leaving Asra quiet and wistful in a way that made Salim's heart weep.

"I might have some ideas. However, if you feel you don't understand something about him, would it not be best to ask him directly? If he is receptive, of course. He may need space."

It's so simple when she says it, far simpler than chasing down portals in the palace where he and Aisha were wrenched apart. It's just frightening to tinker with variables when the outcome is his child's feelings.

"You're right, of course," he says. He shakes off his fretting to beam at her. "Thank you for being his friend."

She seems to shake off something herself before smiling back. "The pleasure is mine."

They speak of clockwork until another meeting demands her attention. Salim returns to the library to begin his research, though his family remains on his mind.

* * *

At some point, Salim dozes over an updated compendium of clockwork inventions. He wakes to find his spectacles askew and the stained glass's pattern stretched from morning light. He would sketch it, or perhaps start the book on recently discovered remedies, if Aisha's absence at his side weren't disorienting him.

Somehow he finds his way out of the palace, down the bridge, and through the market. The throng of morning shoppers makes him glad he doesn't take up much room, though it's still a little hard to breathe; for the longest time, _public space_ simply didn't exist, and the only type of crowd he encountered was thick foliage.

His half-done metal sculptures greet him outside the new house. It will be some time before he can design a whole home, as much as he grumbles about buying anything he could build; for now, all that matters is having shelter for Aisha and himself without having to impose on Asra.

Aisha and Asra are seated at the table, their diagrams from their night's work piled to one side. With a bright look, Aisha rises.

"There's my handsome man." She makes a beeline for him and scoops up Flamel, who she kisses.

"Yes, there he is," Salim says. "Where's my lovely lady?"

Asra's face is buried in his hand. The other holds a teacup he waves toward the corner. "She's over there, with your adorable child."

Indeed, Chimes and Faust are nestled together in a sunbeam. Salim wraps an arm around Asra. "No, that's still you."

"Dad, c’mon."

Salim straightens to inspect Asra, finding him whole and apparently fine, other than embarrassed. Flamel slithers over to his family to confirm the same. The creaky clockwork in Salim's mind finally quiets.

They finish a breakfast of bread, mashed fava beans, and olives, among other things Salim eats absently while watching Flamel coil around Faust. At some signal, she slips free to return to Asra.

"I should go home and nap," Asra says, stifling a yawn.

In moments, Salim forgets they don't all live together. Asra has done well for himself—better than his parents, living off of commissions in a city that forgot them. He worries too much about them, never something they want.

Aisha sees Asra out with a calm smile and a bag of snacks. Upon closing the door, she deflates, burying herself in Salim's hair to cry. Fretting, he strokes her back.

"I felt him," she manages, the break in her voice breaking his heart. "Out in the waves, under the docks. Tiny magic tracks, like a child's footprints."

"Oh," he says. "Oh, oh no."

They remain wrapped around each other. After so much time in their gate, he'd grown accustomed to being incorporeal, and the strength of her embrace still overwhelms him. Even physical comfort can't make what happened okay. Knowing that, he mentions only that Asra is safe, grown, wise.

They part, and her mirth returns as she strokes his cheek with a thumb. "Fell asleep on a book?" she asks. He must have walked all the way home with red lines.

"Yes." She could have been amused at anything and made him content.

"And your hair," she says, trying to push back his curls without success. "You're a sight, love."

"You're beautiful."

"I had better be, with how much I had to bathe. I forgot how persistent sand is in the physical realm."

In their gate, she built hot springs that stretched for an acre, and soaked in them often when she needed to unwind. It's ironic that such luxury is out of reach here, where she actually needs it.

Salim fits himself into his space over her shoulder. "Not to be a silly lovesnake, but spending the day without you was strange."

"I know. For the longest time, if that happened, it meant some tree had carried you off." Despite how she always worried, he can picture her eyes twinkling at the recollection. 

He only separates himself from her for real so she can lie down. The snakes keep him company while he tinkers at his workspace, fitting gears together to an end he can't envision.

* * *

He makes no progress on a gift before the next time he sees Asra. Their family is visiting the market near Asra’s place—the perfect chance to learn more about what he likes. The market buzzes around them, making Salim's head buzz, too. He chatters to clear it, or at least drown it out. "It used to be easier to find cardamom around here."

"Yeah, Nopal doesn't send so many merchants these days. They had some trouble recently," Asra says.

"That's too bad. We should take a trip and see how they're doing."

"Sure. I have a place there."

"A place in Nopal, too?" Aisha asks. "You're doing well for yourself—are those wind chimes?"

Salim bites back his usual comment: _I can make that_. Aisha knows. Before losing their old house, she had a collection he crafted in a range of metals and shapes. She studies the seller's wares, her face lighting up at one decorated with purple glass. Salim softens.

He glances at Asra, still not over having to lift his chin the tiniest bit to do so. Asra is waving chimes with an unfocused expression. Back when he first learned magic, he made Aisha's chime collection sing for him in still air, such a cacophony it woke the neighbors. Salim doesn’t know if he remembers, or cares—but as Nadia said, he can only ask.

"Do you still like this sort of thing, Asra?"

"Oh, there's one hanging back at the shop." It doesn't quite answer the question. Salim long-since learned to interpret Aisha's mysterious statements, but he doesn't trust himself to make assumptions about Asra. He touches two chimes made with different metals, feeling the unique ways they hum even while still.

"Which one of these do you think looks better?"

"I like them both," Asra says, and puts back the one he'd been handling.

Aisha relinquishes her find as well, leaning close to Salim's ear to whisper, "Will you make me one like that?"

He beams. "Of course."

They continue on. It's too easy to worry about the crowd separating them, even though they're all capable of finding their way home. Salim loops one hand through Aisha's elbow, his other feeling for Flamel's smooth form. It turns out to be more for comfort than practicality; the crowd parts for them like waves do before Aisha, murmurs following them that Salim can't make out.

“Is this normal?” he whispers to Asra, afraid of another palace conspiracy. Asra nods, his face full of shame. Though not an aggressive man, Salim wants to turn to the nearest person and shake them.

"Let’s look at those scarves," Aisha says, her voice smooth and light. Gratefully, Salim follows, his tension unwinding while he watches them both fawn. He tries to glean which colors and fabrics Asra likes best, but Asra's answers are as vague as before.

When they move to a nearby clothing stand, Salim crosses a line. His question about whether Asra has a preference for pants or skirts earns a terse, "No, do I need one?"

"No, no, of course not! I only..."

Asra breathes out. "I get. You're trying to get to know me. Can we just wander right now? At least until we're somewhere less crowded?"

Aisha puts a hand on Asra's arm. "Shall we find somewhere quiet to eat?"

That makes Asra brighten. "Sure. There's this bread you guys _need_ to try." Salim offers Aisha what must be his hundredth grateful look that day before following Asra through the parting crowds.

* * *

When Asra was a child, he was the one brimming with questions. Salim was happy to answer them, even if he knew less than he'd like. He’d take Asra into the woods to gather roots and berries, and hours would pass while Asra asked about every plant and animal he saw, plus more he imagined lived there.

At home, they’d use the haul to make paints, splattering themselves with color before they picked up a brush. Sometimes, Flamel posed for portraits; Asra, of course, didn't restrict himself to yellow-orange and lavender, dressing his snake in a rainbow outfit. His art was like stained glass, filtering the world through all the colors he saw it in.

While they painted, the questions stopped. Asra’s tiny face scrunched in concentration, and they went whole hours barely talking.

Salim remembers how safe and comfortable the home felt, like a blanket descended upon the whole place. A plan pieces together.

* * *

From the roof of their house, the bay Aisha loves so much is visible as a curve of blue and silver. It's just as well, with so little space inside for all of their projects. Asra laughs anyway when Salim leads him up with a little magic and an armful of art supplies.

"If only the shop roof was flat," Asra says, sprawling out. "I could get used to a studio like this."

The sun paints Asra in warm tones, and Salim settles. "You're welcome anytime."

They sit companionably while they begin separate sketches. "How long has it been since we painted Mom something? I feel like it's been even more than seventeen years."

"It must be. She and I were so busy during those last months." Sometimes, all of his regrets boil down to that. If they'd stayed home with him, rather than taking the commission...

"At least I actually know how to paint now. It should be way better," Asra says.

"She'd love it regardless. We lost all of your old art."

"That's probably for the best."

"No, it..." A lump lodges in Salim’s throat, and he swallows before it can ruin a fine afternoon. He begins to mix his paints.

"Aw, Dad, I just mean it would've been embarrassing."

"I understand." Even his work from last month, when he was getting used to the physical realm's restrictions, makes him wince now.

While Asra reaches for the amber and maroon tones on Salim's palette, he glances at the other colors. "You can use whatever you'd like. It's not a collaboration, the pieces don't have to fit together," Salim says. He suggested it this way for that reason, wanting Asra's own expression to be unbridled.

Rouge dusts Asra's cheeks. "I thought I'd finally make something that wasn't more juvenile than yours."

"You're not juvenile, Asra. You're a wonderful magician and shopkeeper. You don't have to prove anything to me."

Asra hides his face, but he starts mixing new colors, teal and lilac and raspberry. He focuses on the mixing before committing paint to canvas, concentrates hard for a stretch, and then starts over with a brand new sketch. Salim doesn't know whether to feel guilty or fond that Asra seems to have inherited his standards.

In case his glancing is the culprit, Salim forces himself to focus on his own rendition of a geyser shooting from cracked earth. Since they've been free, he and Aisha haven't returned to their gate, even though it should be safe. It hurts having such a personal place turned against them. They'd never go back again, if it means being here with Asra, but that doesn't stop the longing for everything else they've built together, the elements they used to define themselves. Though a painting might be a poor replacement, it's what comfort he can offer her, for now.

He goes into a zone while he tries to recall the texture of the spray and crumbling rock. He's pulled out of his trance when Asra says, "Okay. That'll have to do."

He has his canvas turned so Salim can't look. Salim waits patiently.

"I don't know if it counts as a gift," Asra says, fiddling with his brush.

"Anything you make is a gift."

That doesn't make Asra seem less embarrassed, but he turns the canvas. A shock of purple flowers stands out against the shore of a magenta pond. Spiral creatures float around the blossoms, almost seeming to shimmer on the page. Salim studies the rendering, transfixed, before realizing Asra is awaiting appraisal.

"Asra, it's beautiful. Your technique has gotten so advanced. How did you come up with the idea?"

"It's just something from my gate."

 _His gate_. That sinks in for several long moments. Most magicians would never share something so personal; that Asra could explore theirs was an accident.

"I know I always dodge questions, and my moods are fickle, and—well." Asra bites his lip. "I just thought she might like to see this part."

"She'll love it. I love it. We love you." Salim shuffles over to wrap his arms around Asra. "You don't owe us anything. All that matters is that you're safe and happy."

Asra returns his hold tightly. "Thanks. I... I overthink things, sometimes."

"I can't imagine where you got that."

"It's a mystery." Even without seeing, Salim can imagine a familiar enough sparkle in his eye. "Dad, are your hands still covered in paint?"

Salim retreats to find his fingerprints all over Asra's shirt. "Oh. Oh, goodness, let me clean that." He hurries to prep a spell while Asra laughs, a sound brighter than wind chimes.

* * *

The sun sets and rises, and Salim tinkers.

He constructs boxes, twists gears, models sculptures. He tries different metals and symbols, ones for health and safety and hope, and returns to his sketches all over again. He mocks up half a dozen gifts before realizing that might be a hassle to receive.

Finally, he spells a music box to reveal a handful of different displays. Fragments of stained glass fit together on the lid, determining the outcome from the way they catch the light. In one version, a clay fox spins to the rhythm of a waltz; in another, a model of Faust wiggles to the sound of rushing water; and in a third, spiral creatures float in circles to a tune like chimes swaying in the breeze.

Aisha startles him awake with a touch. Once the smell of tea grounds him, he shows her his work. Her hand lifts to her heart when she sees the third option; she had grown teary at Asra's painting, now displayed in the bedroom, where it can be kept private from guests.

She nudges Salim in that direction to rest before Asra shows up; he has front row seats to a play. Before they leave, Salim presents the music box with nerves like worms in his gut.

Asra opens and closes and opens it, mesmerized by each beautiful facet of himself that he's shared. "This is amazing," he breathes. Salim glows.

When the model of Faust pops up, Asra laughs and shows it to the real deal. Her tongue flicks out to sniff it. "That's right, it's you."

 _Happy daughter,_ Flamel says. His joy slithers into Salim's heart.

Asra gives Salim a fierce squeeze, his arms stronger than they used to be. "Thanks, Dad. You're the best."

"No, that's still you," Salim says, and without looking he can picture Asra's eyes roll as he laughs.


End file.
